


A Study in Falling

by InkedQuill (JunellaNyx)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Multi, You'll see what I mean, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-04-20 23:35:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4806455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunellaNyx/pseuds/InkedQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The iris of her left eye was a hypnotic blend of emerald and blue, the right the hue of molten honey, and both would sparkle in a disconcertingly attractive way when she was pleased or happy.</p><p>Usually it wouldn't have been something of note.<br/>Usually, he wouldn't spare more than a thought for the Inquisitor when she wasn't in sight. (And he had. More than a few thoughts).<br/>Usually, he wouldn't have given her more than a second glance, and only because of the mark. His mark.</p><p>The thought of something of his in her possession pleased him more than it ought to.</p><p>---<br/>Against all reason, Solas finds himself besotted with her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

He touches the worn carvings on weathered marble, tracing the shape of letters in a language that fell into disuse centuries ago. 

The statue of a young woman looms over him, one hand drawn back and primed to throw the wickedly curved dagger it holds. Her face is alight with the thrill of the hunt.

He looks up at it, and thinks the cold yellowed stone of her chiselled eyes do no justice to the real ones, with their fascinating colouration. It was what first drew him to her after all.

\---  


In the beginning, she came to him, speaking of shining steeds and protection (for him! How quaint!). Her questions led to long meandering conversations about everything and nothing. She was no mage, though he had glimpsed a faint spark of magical affinity in her when he examined her in the aftermath of the explosion. 

She was guarded (as she should be) and chose her words with the care of a kitten taking its first steps. He saw her discomfort at the obeisances the villagers made as she passed, and sought to put her at ease whenever she stopped to speak with him.

On occasion, his dry observations coaxed a small laugh from her, chasing away the weight of reluctant leadership for a heartbeat or two. Amusement made her look younger in these moments, and he fancied it afforded him a glimpse of the woman beneath the artifice of the Herald. The iris of her left eye was a hypnotic blend of emerald and blue, the right the hue of molten honey, and both would sparkle in a disconcertingly attractive way when she was pleased or happy. 

Usually it wouldn't have been something of note.

Usually, he wouldn't spare more than a thought for the Inquisitor when she wasn't in sight. (And he had. More than a few thoughts). 

Usually, he wouldn't have given her more than a second glance, and only because of the mark. His mark. The thought of something of his in her possession pleased him more than it ought to.

\---  


She was an enigma, a creature that shifted effortlessly between personae and bearings according to her audience. He found himself unable to grasp even a hint of her personality. It intrigued him to no end, and so he took every opportunity to observe her interactions with other members of the Inquisition. 

Blackwall looked at her with reverence and something like want in his eyes when she spoke to him in grave low tones, hands clasped before her like a Chantry mother. 

Sera laughed raucously when she tried her hand at sniping the Chargers in the practice yard with cherry stones and a slingshot.

Bull was equally at ease trading lewd japes and discussing philosophy with her. When she fell asleep on his broad, warm shoulder by the campfire, he would smooth her tangled hair back from her face, his thick grey fingers gentle as they untangled knots and picked out leaves from the fiery-hued locks.

Dorian tutted continuously over the state of her ragged nails, read aloud interesting passages he came across in the library, and pretended he wasn't touched by the fine robes she commissioned for him.

Cole's long spindly arm cradled an orphaned foal she'd brought him, small and helpless, as his free hand held a comically large bottle for the young animal to suckle from. 'It's content now,' he said to her in wonder. 'Well-fed, welcomed and warm. I helped.'

Vivienne traded harmless barbs with her, smiling with motherly affection at her over the lip of a teacup, the scent of specialty teas and stacks of open potions texts between them.

Cassandra's brusque manner gave way beneath the subtle pressure of innocuous questions and lightly teasing jibes, leaving behind amicable affection and a sharp, dry wit. 

Varric was always happy to be distracted from the balance sheets and letters he scratched out in his corner, his raspy chuckles rising easily over the hustle of the Great Hall. She listened to his stories, young face bright in the torchlight, and matched him quip for quip, and ale for ale.

With him, she was all curious questions and curiouser eyes, a counterpoint ready if he was in the mood for a debate; a clandestine piece of Antivan candy if he wasn't, purloined from Josephine's private stash. 

So he was not the only one a little bit in love with her. 

Just a little.


	2. Budding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more of a bridging chapter, so more action and things happening instead of reflective Solas in denial. He'll make a return soon!
> 
> Instead of rehashing and retelling the in-game events, I have chosen to enhance them with Solas's perspective of Evelyn's disappearance, reappearance and the psychological toll of seeing her tortured friends torn apart to buy her time (which, in my mind, helps me account for his painfully nonchalant 'yeah i don't need to know the gory details, just brace yourself' speech he gives you when you talk to him after Redcliffe in Haven.)  
> Enjoy!

Redcliffe was…strange, even for a god who had seen a great deal of oddities in his long life. One minute, she was a step away, and the next, yanked off her feet by a spell that felt _wrong_. He gave a shout of dismay and reached for her, but whatever magic Alexius had worked was too strong. 

He stared at the space where she had stood for a heartbeat, his awareness of the Mark gone.

Beside him, Bull rumbled in his chest, low and menacing. ‘What have you done to her?’

Alexius smirked and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Whatever one does when there is an obstacle, of course. She cannot be allowed to keep what doesn't belong to her.’

His lips peeled back in a snarl more animal than man. How _dare_ this quickling presume to understand ownership! He started for the throne dais, determined to tear the uppity human apart. The shouts of the Inquisition’s men diverted his intent. While Alexius cast his spell, more Venatori had poured into the room. 

He looked back to see Alexius ensconced in a barrier. Thwarted, he growled, turning on the men who came at him. His Fire Mines, fueled by his wrath, burned brighter than usual, and he watched with no small satisfaction as hair and cloth and skin singed and charred. Never one to miss the opportunity for a good brawl, Bull waded into the fray, his greataxe tearing through the panicked men like a scythe through grass.

He lost track of time. When the Venatori lay in smoking, broken heaps at their feet, he turned to the dais, determined to avenge.

But.

 _But._

There she stood, bloodied and filthy. She fingered the hilts of her daggers longingly, eyeing Alexius, even as Dorian spoke to her in low urgent tones, hand wrapped around her elbow. At length, she nodded and shook his hand off. It took one stride for her to cross the distance between herself and the older mage, and she backhanded him hard enough to send him sprawling. 'Take him away,' she hissed.

As Leliana's agents swarmed around them to deal with the aftermath of the failed assassination, he took a step forth, faint with relief and the emotional whiplash of seeing her, whole and fairly well again. 'Herald.'

She turned. Her eyes flicked from him to Bull, scanning them from top to toe. 'Are you unharmed?' At their noises of affirmation, she clapped a hand over her mouth and swayed on her feet.

Dorian slipped an arm around her and helped her off the dais. 'I believe she needs some air. Do excuse us.' Gently and firmly, he helped her out of the building.

The ride back to Haven was silent, the sort that screamed with the absence of noise. When they broke for camp, she would curl up against Bull, or sit near him as they cleaned their gear in the firelight, clasping her hands together to still their shaking.

He watched as the splotches of blues and blacks under her eyes deepened day by day, and tapped her on the ankle one evening as they sat grinding herbs for poultices. 'If you will permit it,' he said. 'I am willing to assist with the nightmares.'

She made a noise in her throat. 'I will be fine.'

'Herald.'

'I don't want to trouble you.'

'Her--Trevelyan.' He reached over and stilled her hand over the mortar. 'You cannot go on without sleep.'

She sighed, and tilted her head so she could look at him from the corner of her eyes. 'Do you promise you wouldn't think less of me?'

'That depends. Do your dreams involves multicoloured nugs, perhaps?'

A ghost of a smile flitted over her mouth, softening the lines of tension around it. 'They might, now that you have seeded the very notion in my mind.'

That night, he waited for the light in her tent to go out before he lay down in his bedroll and closed his eyes.

He found her standing in a broken, crumbled version of Redcliffe's Chantry, looking down at two crumpled bodies. His, and Bull's, grotesquely broken. A trio of claw marks laid his ribs open, the exposed organs shredded. Bull was missing half his face, and most of his legs, his face frozen in a bellow. Shards of red lyrium protruded from their mangled flesh, glowing sickly crimson. He laid a hand on her elbow, exerting enough pressure to draw her eye from the display. 'It would take a great deal to reduce us to such a state, Herald.' 

She turned her eyes upon him, already ashen skin dyed green by the Fade. 'It took an army of demons. I saw them throw Bull aside like so much garbage. And you--' She gulped and wrung her hands. 'Alexius sent us into the future, and you two bought us the time we needed to return. I begged--' she stopped, pressing a fist to her mouth, her eyes haunted.

He cast a look around, to make sure no demons were drawn by the distraught woman in front of him. Carefully, he tugged her hand away from her face, and caught her by the chin. 'You would do the same for me, if our positions were reversed, would you not?'

'Yes, but--'

'And so would I again, in a heartbeat, if it means saving the world, da'len.'

'No.' She seized his tunic with both hands. 'No Solas, you can't. The Inquisition needs your knowledge of the Fade and the Breach.'

'And what can we accomplish without your mark?'

'The Inquisition has plenty of arcane experts. I'm sure they can come up with something.'

He smiled and smoothed a lock of hair off her brow. 'Noble words from a terrified little mouse. Might I suggest we continue this debate _after_ a good night's sleep?'

The push of power he put behind the command ensured she was kept from dreaming for the night. He glanced down at the disintegrating image of his corpse, grimaced and dispelled the dream, more than a little disturbed at the sight of his own vacant eyes staring up at him.

\---  


When the horns announced their arrival, Cassandra and Cullen met her at the doors of Haven with downcast eyes. She had sent them to Val Royeaux to speak with the Templars in her stead. The combined clout of a Seeker and a former Knight Commander representing the Inquisition was still considerable enough to sway some opinions, although it seemed to have little effect on the ones that mattered most. 

‘Most of the Templars have withdrawn on the Lord Seeker’s orders,’ Cassandra growled, her accent thickened by frustration. ‘I do not know what has come over him. He was a reasonable man.’

‘We gave them the choice, Cassandra,’ Trevelyan said, clapping her on the shoulder. ‘That is more than what most would offer, and the best we can do. Now, where are the new recruits?’

‘Herald?’ 

She flashed a grin, blinding in its brief intensity. ‘You said most of the Templars. I'd like very much to meet the rest.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I understood the need for a pivotal point in the narrative, having to choose between the Mages and the Templars was a strange choice to me because there was the very useful presence of a former Knight Commander who _survived the highly traumatic events of Kirkwall's Chantry and held the remnants of the Templars together after his rescue_. 
> 
> You'd think that would win him some clout and make him an even better candidate to petition them than the Herald, don't you?
> 
> Anyway, comments, thoughts and counterarguments are welcome! I'd love to hear your thoughts :)


	3. Unfurl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Covers In Your Heart Shall Burn, some insight into Evelyn from our favourite elven apostate's eyes and more deliberately obtuse Solas.
> 
> I hope this makes up for the short chapter previously!

Closing the Breach went so smoothly it felt almost anti-climactic.

Trevelyan was waiting when he emerged from his hut, pack over a shoulder. ‘Here,’ she said, thrusting a bundle of oiled cloth into his hands. ‘I had these set aside, but I wager you will need them more.’

He stared. ‘You knew?’

She chuckled. ‘You were a wandering mage who joined to help. Now that it’s done, I knew you’d be among the first to leave. I’m glad I caught you before you slipped away.’

Perhaps he was not as opaque as he supposed. He tucked the new supplies under his arm and cleared his throat. ‘It has been a pleasure, Herald.’

‘Not for long, if I can help it.’ She glanced at her hand ruefully. ‘The Mark is of use to no one but the rifts now.’

‘You have amassed considerable power, and at the very least, the respect of the Ferelden Crown. Nobles have pledged their support to you, a hard-won victory considering the beginnings of the Inquisition. Will you throw that away so easily?’

‘My advisors did most of the work,’ she said with a shrug. ‘I just sign the letters. Besides, Cassandra would have a respectable hero leading us, not a raggedy rogue with a glowing hand.’

They looked up at cheering from the town centre, where the minstrels were striking up another tune, and more joined the crowd around the fire. ‘You should leave soon,’ she murmured, with a hint of sadness that made his chest twinge. Her hand lifted, fingers outstretched, before shrinking back.

He caught her wrist before she could withdraw completely, running a thumb over her wrist. It was the most intimate he had allowed himself to be with her, and he only permitted himself this because their paths might not cross again for a long time, if at all. ‘I hope I have been of help.’

She smiled, small and wobbly. ‘You have. I—I’ll miss you, I think.’ She closed the polite distance between them and caught him in a tentative hug. His hands lifted, hovering awkwardly at the sudden intimacy before settling lightly on her back. 

She darted back like a startled rabbit, eyes round with apprehension, and he tamped down the urge to draw her back and bury his nose in the curve of her neck, where her scent was strongest.

Instead, he sketched a courtly bow, purposefully fanciful, to make her smile. She inclined her head and turned to head back to the carousing townspeople. 

He was halfway to the gates when the alarms began, and the sentries shouted of torches nearing in orderly lines. He should have known that the pretender would retaliate to not one, but two attempts to cut off troops for his grandiose farce.

They came, with smoke and corruption in the wake of their victory, and he was forced to run with the rest of them, although he would have much preferred to stay with her. Her fervent ‘Promise me you will run, Solas’ and the Fade memory of her grip on his tunic broke his resolve.

The high pained cry that rang through the air as they fled tore at his conscience. She would die, frozen and alone, and it would be his fault.

He slunk into the blizzard as a wolf not long after they set up camp, a band of bedraggled refugees from a sanctuary that proved its name false. His lupine nose, keener than his elvhen form’s, found the scent of her, laced with acrid smoke, the tang of blood and old magic half a day’s walk behind them.

His heart thudding in his ears, he tailed her. When she swayed and fell to her knees, he leapt to her side, transforming mid-leap. ‘Herald,’ he murmured, turning her over in the snow. 

She blinked up at him dazedly. He should not be thinking her beautiful, with icicles in her eyelashes and crimson-stained lips.

‘Solas,’ she mumbled. ‘Hm. Seein' things. Prob'ly dyin' then.’ 

'No,' he said, his vehemence surprising even himself. 'You're not. You mustn't stop now. We are not far off from camp.' 

'Truly?'

'Have I given you cause to doubt me?' he replied with a half-smile.

She squinted and laughed weakly, struggling to her hands and knees. 'Def'nitely dyin'. Real Solas wouldn't smile at me.'

'I am not entirely without humour, Herald. If you are in better shape, you would recall all the times you laughed at something I said,' he replied, taking part of her weight when her right leg shook.

'Was the only one laughin' during our talks. You didn’t crack even a smile, however hard I tried to make you laugh.'

'Did you?' He wondered how he could have missed that.

'Mm-hm.' She remained silent when he made an inquiring noise, slanting a faint smile at him. 'A lady doesn't tell, Solas.'

He would have smiled in return, if her lip did not crack at the slight movement and began bleeding anew. He brushed the beads of blood aside, sealing the wounds with a flicker of his will.

They trudged for a while longer, slowed by her bad leg and the knee-deep snow. He kept an ear on her pulse, worried by the weakening rhythm despite their physical exertions. When her head began to loll, he stopped, swinging her up into his arms. She made small noises of protest, but capitulated all too easily, cold hands curled into his shirt. He tucked her face against his neck to save it from the cutting wind, and fought the impulse to shudder at the sensation of her breath on his skin.

Exhausted and running dangerously on mana, he drew on his innermost reserves to warm her. Hoisting her a little higher to ensure his hold was secure, he strode towards the torches and shouts of the Inquisition's search parties.

  
\---  


He gave her Tarasyl'an Te'las, and there, the humans named her Inquisitor. He watched the impromptu ceremony from the shadows, quietly apprehensive, as she raised the sword in the air.

Her wistful declarations of retirement grated at the back of his mind as she donned a mask of determination and went to work on the crumbling ruins of Skyhold and the organisation of the people.

He understood the need for a leader, and yet her new title sat ill with him. It drew the attentions of the major power players in Thedas. It sent droves of pampered, perfumed nobles to the gates of their remote fortress, eager to see the new Inquisitor in person and hopefully curry her favour. It attracted pleas for intercession from the surrounding lands, mostly petty squabbles between the privileged.

The games of power remained the same, though the players changed. He observed her receive petitioners on her dragon's maw throne, her mien a regal, stern mask, and worried that they would bury her under layers of steel and silverite, forging her into a cold, unfeeling weapon.

'She will be fine, Chuckles,' said the dwarf one day, accurately interpreting his sour expression.

'Will she?'

'Do you honestly think Sassy will do what her advisors tell her to, if it weren't something she wanted at all?'

'Much can be said for persuasion, and I hear our ambassador is quite talented.'

'Then you need to hear her talk circles around Josephine sometime. It's easy to forget she's born to the Game when she's all sweetness and light around us.'

He spared the dwarf a glance as she turned down yet another marriage offer, and arched a brow.

Varric just grinned. 'Do you think she'll let me write a book on her if I promise to split the royalties?'

\---  


He took the rotunda for his, for its proximity to the library. The one downside was the cracked pitted plaster wall, and he resolved to cover it with his records of the Inquisition's deeds.

Fleetingly, he wondered how the humans would react if they knew that millions would come to watch him paint in Arlathan, entranced by the unconventional approach he used in his works. Here in modern Thedas, his work only caught the attention of the odd passerby, Leliana, and the resident archivist, but he paid them no mind. Idle curiosity could be managed, and it added to his wandering scholar persona well enough.

An unexpected benefit was the Inquisitor's increased presence, to help him with his paints or simply watch him contemplate the next strokes he would make with his brushes. 'I used to paint,' she told him as they sat side by side on the scaffolding, crushing pigments for his paints.

'So I assumed,' he replied, sprinkling a touch more blue into the green he was mixing. 'The daughters of noble houses are encouraged to take up artistic pursuits, are they not?'

'As if the quality of my paintings will make me a better wife to a lordling.' The derision in her voice made him look up. 'My mother would despair over my works at the end of every day, claiming my brushstrokes were too harsh and broad to be properly gentile.’

‘You don’t seem too fond of her.’

‘I’m not. I was raised by nannies and our servants. My parents only trotted by occasionally to pat us on the head and remind us of our duty to improve the lot of House Trevelyan.’ She pushed a pot of blue towards him, and leaned back against the wall. 'I was promised to the son of another lord at birth, a landholder with lands a week's ride from my family's estates. The match was to increase my family's standing in the ranks of nobility.' 

'Have you had the pleasure of meeting the boy?' 

'Oh yes. We hated each other at first sight. I beat him at horse-racing, and he threw a tantrum at dinner when I wouldn't let him have the coronets.' She flashed him a grin so full of mischief he couldn't help smiling back. 'I was ten, and they were my favourite. Cook made them exactly how I liked, with sweetened cocoa sprinkled on the tops. Mother was beside herself at how I behaved.' 

A weakness for chocolate. He filed that away for future reference, and bit back the observations hovering at the tip of his tongue about spoiled lordlings and how they would have no hope of matching her unique spirit.

\---  


She began keeping weekly appointments of chess with the Commander, and he had thought nothing of it at first. The game taught strategy and forethought -- she would do well to have both.

It wasn’t until he espied them in the gardens, heads bent over a chessboard, that he realised how far he’d fallen. She had taken her opponent’s knight and sat back smirking. The curl of her mouth, coupled with the devious glint in her eyes, made his heart skip a beat.

The Commander studied the board, absently stroking his chin. Carefully, he moved his chosen piece, and with the air of a cat who got the cream, knocked her king over with a flick of his finger.

Her exclamation of dismay mingled with the low laughter of the day’s victor. Standing up, he reached for her hand and bent his head over her fingers, his amber eyes intent as he grazed her knuckles with his lips.

There was an unpleasant writhing in the pit of his stomach, brought on by her slight shiver. He _wanted_ that wide-eyed look directed at him. If she had even hinted at it, he would pluck the stars and moon from the sky if she would look at him the way she did at the Commander.

The human man finally returned her hand to her, departing the gazebo with a final courtly bow. Passing him in the garden, the Commander tilted his head in greeting. ‘Solas.’

‘Cullen.’ He was pleased at how his reciprocal salutation came out mildly pleasant—as though he was not inwardly reeling under the weight of his epiphany.

Of course the Commander would appeal to her, with the presence he commanded and the force of will he wielded. What did he, an unassuming apostate, have to hold a candle to that? He was taller than most of the Dalish and city elves, but chose to take on the willowy build of his modern brethren. He had a bad habit of slouching, a mannerism he'd initially taken on as an affectation to blend in better. He was bookish, and given to long meandering lectures, not crisp directness and decisive actions.

He shook the unexpected fit of self-doubt off – when was the last time that had happened? – and approached the Inquisitor.

She had remained seated, frowning at the pieces all over the chessboard. 'I don't understand this.'

He slid into place opposite her, laying the book he'd brought on the bench beside her. 'What dares elude the comprehension of the great Inquisitor?'

She threw him a half-hearted glare. 'Chess, mostly. I've never won a game with Cullen except for the ones he lets me win.'

'Simply a matter of practice.'

'I'll never be able to beat Cullen then. He's had years of practice.'

'I would presume Cassandra chose him for his strategic acumen and not his impressive coat.'

She blinked, and snorted. 'Did you just make fun of his fashion sense?'

'I will neither confirm nor deny such a thing.'

She laughed and leaned her cheek against a fist. ‘I bet you play flawlessly.’

‘Not well,’ he demurred. ‘But if I may, there is a version the Elvhen used to play in the days of Arlathan, with rules less rigid as this. I can teach it to you, if you can find a board.’

‘Will it take centuries to learn?’

'Only the more complex manoeuvres.’

She laughed and batted at his hand. ‘I’ll look in the Black Emporium, when I next visit. I’d be surprised if the strange old proprietor does not have it.’  


‘The Black Emporium?’

‘Oh yes. Didn’t you hear? We received a letter inviting us to trade with them. It has the most curious collection of arcane and historical oddments I’ve ever seen. You’d love it.’

He hummed his interest. ‘I fear I have to see this—Emporium for myself to say for certain.’

‘I’ll let you know when I have a moment to spare.’ She looked up at the bell that marked the third hour after noon and pulled a face. ‘I have tea now with an Orlesian duke who wants to discuss how I will be an ideal wife for him.’

His heart twisted. He willed his face to be still. ‘Are you—‘

‘Stars, no. Josie will make some vague promises of Inquisition backing and talk him into donating his firstborn to us. I’m just there to make him think he has even a glimmer of hope to bless me with his forgettable family name.’

He let out a breath, and took petty pleasure in pushing the chessboard to the edge of the table. He needed a great deal of space to read, after all.


	4. Arrest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denial and some realisations. 
> 
> Two steps forward, and one and a half back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The kudos from readers give me life, although it's been months since I updated. In that time, I ended one relationship, began on the trembling baby steps of another, and got my ass whupped at work. 
> 
> Thank you for your support. This fic wouldn't be what it is without your comments, and readership.

  
\---

‘Have you seen the Inquisitor?’ 

He lifted his eyes from the mural and found their chief ambassador standing in the doorway from the Great Hall. ‘I’m afraid I have not.’ 

‘Nor have I,’ chimed the Tevinter, leaning over the banister. ‘What do you want her for? It’s barely sunrise.’ 

‘Just some orders I need her to approve. How strange, she’s not in her roo—ah Inquisitor!’ 

The woman in question had swept into the rotunda through another door, and stood frozen just inside, surprised at the scrutiny from three pairs of eyes. ‘Good—morning?’ 

‘Ambassador Montilyet was just looking for you,’ he said, studiously ignoring she was still in yesterday’s clothes, and bore the look of someone hoping to sneak in without notice. 

‘Ah. Alright.’ She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. ‘Could you excuse me a moment, Josie? I will be right with you after I make a quick stop by my quarters to er—pick up something.’ 

‘Oh yes, of course. I will be in my office. Have a good day, sers.’ Josephine retreated, and so did the Inquisitor after a quick smile at the two mages. 

Both looked at the door the Inquisitor had left open in her haste. ‘Well,’ said Dorian with no small amount of delight. ‘It looks like our fine leader may have a thing for strapping ex-Templars.’ 

He took a deep breath, loosened the death grip he had on his paint brush and turned back to layering blacks and reds over the plaster. 

\--

He did not brush away fancies of taking her mouth for his, licking and sucking until he was all she saw. He did not wonder if she would taste sweet, with the hard herbal candies she favoured perfuming her breath. 

If he had been told he would envy his own magic for being so intimately entwined with another being, he would have laughed. And eviscerated the fool for such foolishness. 

Now, he simply called himself ten kinds of fool and tried to convince himself it was for the best. 

_She's not for you. You will hurt her in the end. She will hate you for your deception._ He would repeat variations of these statements to himself, angry at his lack of self-control. He was no callow youth, easily infatuated by the first pretty maiden who smiled at him. How the other gods would laugh at him now, reduced to a shadow of his former self, and bewitched by a mortal --a human -- who showed no interest in the shade of his eyes and simpered not at all for his favour. Perhaps, he thought with a touch of self-deprecating irony. This was payback for all the women whose affections he'd encouraged and toyed with in Arlathan. To slowly lose his mind over the unattainable. 

  


Nevertheless, he still came when she called, a masochistic moth to her flame. 

They bent their heads over newly discovered artifacts in the Exalted Plains, marveling at the quality of the carvings that have stood the test of time. She would tuck excess herbs into his bags when she knew his stores of tonics were running low. He, in turn, kept her night terrors at bay. He considered it his responsibility, since all her ordeals had been set in motion by his folly. 

When they came upon another Dalish camp, he bit his tongue and watched her mingle, showing all the proper deference to the elders and becoming fast friends with the young elves. He resented the way some of the men followed her with their eyes, and the ease of the children as they danced around her ankles, begging for stories or a kiss. She gave both freely, bouncing each on her knee and sending them off with a pat on their little bottoms. 

_If only..._

No. He cut off that train of thought swiftly. She would not have flourished if she was born of the Dalish. Any Keeper would have put an end to the wilful streak he had glimpsed in her, and she would have been made to hunt for food and birth scores of elflings the moment she flowered. No, his Trevelyan was fine the way she was. 

He resolutely did not think of how his mind worded that particular conclusion.

She made the clan caramel drops by the fire after dinner, little globs of smoky sweetness to suck off the tips of whittled twigs. 

He nibbled on his share of the candy absently, watching Keeper Hawen speak with her at the edge of the firelight. She had her charming diplomat façade on, all fluttery lashes and silvery laughs. 

'That there,' murmured Blackwall at his shoulder. 'Is the look of a man who wishes he was thirty years younger.' 

He snorted, loud enough to turn the heads of the elves seated nearby. 'If the Inquisitor were a man, he would have sent all the fertile maidens to his tent tonight.' 

'Even if she weren't a mage?' 

'Bearing a child of such a powerful figure would elevate the clan above others, even if it would be a half-blood.' 

'Good ol'fashioned politicking,' rumbled the gruff human. 'A universal trait, I suppose.' 

Appearing to conclude their chat, Trevelyan held out her hand. Instead of catching it for a handshake, the Keeper took her hand in both of his and bowed over it, brushing his mouth over her knuckles. Solas turned away. 

  


Later that night, he retreated to his tent on the outskirts of the camp, and found his eyes drawn straight to the curved, firm rear of one human female, lying belly down in her bedroll reading. 

'Um,' he began, completely wrong-footed. 

'Relax, Solas,' said Trevelyan, without looking up. 'I know what Dalish clans do when passing mages seek shelter with them, so I thought a little preventive action would save you the trouble of breaking some poor girl's heart, and possibly her tailbone, when you throw her out of your tent.' 

He felt the tips of his ears grow hot, and averted his eyes from the swell of her bottom. 'Your foresight is much appreciated. I did not think--' 

She chuckled, a low warm sound that settled pleasantly in the pit of his belly. 'Come now, Solas. Surely someone has told you you're not that shabby-looking.' 

The blush spread to his cheeks. By the stars! He hadn't been this tongue tied in centuries. Eager to regain some ground in the conversation, he retorted, ' So you have been looking.' 

Rather than flustering her, it earned him a matter-of-fact glance over her shoulder as she turned a page. 'Several of the Dalish girls have been, too. Didn't you see them sneaking glances at you and giggling behind the aravels?' 

Another thing he'd missed. He'd really ought to step up on his game. Gambit failed, he cast around for something else to say. 'And you do not care for the gossip that will spread of the Inquisitor's involvement with an apostate flat-ear?' 

'I'm fairly certain there already are rumours. Gossip is the Orlesian national pastime, after all, up there with the Game, and competing on how much frills one can don without looking like an overblown pastry.' 

Her tart observation startled a snort out of him. A little more at ease, he laid out his bedroll, stripped off his outer layers, and pulled out his own book. 

When the candles finally burned out, he looked up to find her asleep, half off her bedroll and open book in an outstretched hand. A sudden snore made him smile, and he got up to set her to rights. 

If he took the chance to run a finger over her cheek, or ghost his lips over her brow, well, no one else would know, would they? 

  
\---

The rescue of Wisdom went awry, and he left them, too filled with rage and sorrow to keep up his unassuming façade. 

He spent a week searching the Fade, until at last, heartsick, he turned his feet towards Skyhold. She welcomed him back with gentle words and understanding eyes, listening to his rambling about how Wisdom would likely not know him when she returned - if she did return. 

When he asked to speak with her in private, she tilted her head, her gaze slipping from compassionate to assessing. 'You are travel-weary, and emotional, Solas. Perhaps later, when you have rested and eaten?' 

He would have refused, insisted to speak with her then, but the hint of steel in her suggestion stopped him. He inclined his head, and went in search of clean clothes and the baths. 

She waited two days before coming to him after supper, slipping in with a tray. He looked up from his contemplation of an old tome at the clink of glasses. 

Crossing the room with a glass in each hand, she handed him one and folded herself into the lone couch with the other. He savoured the dark syrupy texture of the port on his tongue for a few moments before speaking. 'You have been busy.' 

'Lords to flatter, ladies to titter with. We need their gold and men, but you knew that already. What did you want to discuss?' 

He hesitated, the words he had wanted to say sounding like so much tripe now. 'Why'd you let me kill the mages?' 

'I imagine you would have even if I tried to stop you.' She held up a hand to stop his protests. 'Wouldn't you? You were angry enough to shove me aside when you saw what they'd done to Wisdom. I'm not being petty, Solas. That shove would have sent me tumbling arse over teakettle a long way away.' Her eyes flicked between the murals, the books he had amassed and his arm, deceptively thin for the amount of strength he had displayed. 

Setting the glass on the ornate side table, she folded her arms and sat back, eyes intent on him. 

He stared back, his easy stance belied by his grip on the glass. 

'Who are you, Solas?' 

He exhaled, and took another sip of port to buy himself some time. Her eyes narrowed, but she remained silent. _Lie_. At length, he said, ‘I am but a simple apostate who wishes to see the defeat of Corypheus.' 

She arched a brow. 'And after that?' 

'I...cannot say.'

'Cannot or will not?' 

He sighed. 'I do not know what will happen when you best him, so I cannot predict what will come to pass after.' 

She reached for her drink, and stopped, a soft noise escaping her. 'Is this about the orb, Solas?' 

_Clever girl_ , he thought and permitted himself a grimace. 'Yes.' 

'Do you wish to take it for yourself?' 

'I do wish to recover it, yes. But not for myself.' 

A look. 'Then what will you do with it?' 

'Keep it safe. Such power is a siren's call to the weak-minded.’ 

'And you believe you will be able to resist it?' 

'If I do not, I suppose you will.' 

A long silence, as she regarded him over the lip of her glass, her eyes sharp. 'Each of you joined up hoping the Inquisitions would be the means to your ends, Solas. I'm not fool enough to think that would keep you from turning on me if you think you can do it better.' 

'Is that what you really think?' 

'Occasionally.' She smiled thinly. 'We both know how quickly the tides of power can change, do we not, Solas?' 

He cocked his head, noting the weariness and the lines around her eyes, lines that didn't exist months ago. 'Why did you stay, then?' 

'Would you leave, if you know you have a chance to shape the way the world will change for the better?' 

Her earnest words were an uncanny echo of the thoughts of a much younger him, before he had been forced to take the step that determined this terrible future of the People. He swallowed hard. 'And if the future you envisioned turned out very different?' 

'I don't know. There's nothing for it except to start anew, isn't it? Except it will probably involve a great deal of bloodshed and revolution.' She studied the amber depths of her glass. 'But that's the only way change happens -- can happen.' 

'You do not believe a bloodless revolution is possible?' 

She snorted. 'I'm not sure you noticed, but there are tensions between every faction and race in Thedas. The humans calling elves knife-ears, fierce Dalish tribes killing humans on sight to avenge the Exalted Marches, the Qunari waiting to see when and how they can swoop in.' She threw him a sidelong glance. 'Where does bloodless ever enter the picture? Once the hole in the sky is gone, this land is going to go up like a flour keg in a bonfire.' 

He inclined his head. 'An accurate, if gloomy assessment.' 

'Gloomy?' A corner of her mouth lifted. 'Did you, of all people, just called me gloomy, you who are grim and fatalistic all the time?' 

'I prefer pragmatic,' he shot back with a slight smile. 'Although I will have you know that women do so love the brooding mysterious persona I have, or so Dorian tells me.' The turn in the conversation filled him with mingled relief and disappointment; relief that they were no longer speaking of a matter that hit uncomfortably close to the secrets he held, and disappointment that he would not be debating the matter further. A perverse paradox indeed. 

'Dorian is full of bullshit, that's what he is,' she snorted, deliberately raising her voice. 

An offended noise from above made them both laugh. 

They worked their way through the bottle, he intermittently reading from his book aloud to her as she stretched out on the couch. At some point in the evening, her feet found their way into his lap, bare toes wriggling. The tower was silent, the library's occupants and the spymaster long abed. In the stillness of the tower, he could almost fool himself into thinking the world held naught but him and her. 

He chanced a look at her as he turned a page and smiled at her half-lidded eyes and general air of languor. Her colour was heightened by the drink, with twin spots of pink seated high on her cheeks and her ankles warm under his palm.

The alcohol wore away the edges of his reserve, laughter coming to him easier and more freely than usual. He saw no reason to stop himself from stroking the muscled lines of her calves, or move an errant lock of hair off her face. The dancing light played like a lover's caress over her face, catching in the depths of her eyes and limning the sweet bow of her upper lip. He leant in slowly, running his thumb over the curve. The plush flesh was like silk under his touch, and she parted her lips at the pressure he exerted. The tip of his thumb slipped into the wet warmth of her mouth, and a deep, desperate groan reverberated through his chest at the barest whisper of her tongue against his skin. 

He had no idea if it was he who moved first, or she. In the next heartbeat, they were clinging to each other, lips moving against each other with dizzying urgency. She arched her back, guiding his hands to her firm, tantalizing bosom, as he ground his thigh against the juncture of her legs. The heat of her through her leathers stole his breath. 

He worked the first few clasps of her tunic free, and tore his mouth from hers to nip at the milky column of her neck and the delicate, fragrant skin of her décolletage, where faint traces of her perfume mingled with sweat and musk in a potent olfactory cocktail that made his mouth water. 

She breathed his name when he closed teeth and tongue around a nipple, her nails digging into the back of his head. 

The sting of her grip pierced the haze of want enveloping his mind. He forced himself away, cursing his weak resolve and weaker flesh. 'I'm sorry,' he managed. 'That was impulsive and unwise of me.' 

She sat up, making no effort to correct her state of dishabille. 'I thought we were being impulsive together.' 

He averted his eyes from the marks purpling on her throat. A bared nipple, still glistening from his mouth, taunted him in his peripheral vision. 'That does not make it right, Inquisitor. Excuse me.' 

He beat a hasty retreat to his quarters, and tried to will his erection away. It failed miserably, with the taste of her skin on his tongue and the precise notes of her pleased sighs in his ears. Resigned, he reached into his leggings and took hold of himself. As he leaned back against the wall and began to stroke, he recalled the exact weight and softness of her breasts in his palms, and how she had gasped when he licked the hollow by her jaw. He remembered how her lithe form surged beneath him as he drove his thigh against the warm soft place between her legs and plucked at her nipples, playing her body like an instrument. His erection swelled in his hand, fed by his fantasies of undoing her laces and slipping his hand in to find her dripping wet core. Of pushing his fingers into her and watching her mouth form a O of ecstasy. 

He came with a bitten-off moan, spilling over his fist and shirt at the thought of her wet and wanting for him. 

As he cleaned himself off with a rag and tossed his soiled clothing into the laundry basket, he shook his head at himself. He would find her tomorrow, first thing in the morning, and make it clear this was to be a one time lapse in judgment. It must never happen again. 

His plans had no room for a lover. 

His secrets had no place for another keeper. 


	5. Winter's Chill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long silence! I've had a thoroughly rotten year, and my muse kinda upped and left me for a while there.
> 
> At any rate, here's chapter 5, where Solas learns that he's not the only one with issues.

Restless, he had tossed and turned the whole night, only slipping into an uneasy slumber in the small hours of morning. He contemplated his face in the mirror above his washstand, and rejected the idea of spelling the telltale signs of sleeplessness away. He certainly had no need to look good for her, for the difficult talk they must have. 

The walk to her chambers was fraught with doubt. Should he keep to the shadows to avoid gossip, or stride through the Great Hall with the air of someone who had all the right in the world? His indecision annoyed him, and he compromised by keeping to the edges of the Great Hall, pulling a little on the Fade to ensure no one took notice of him. 

A serving girl was entering the Inquisitor’s chambers just as he reached the door, holding two large buckets of steaming water. Drawing her morning bath, most likely. It was common knowledge in the Inner Circle that no one was to bother her before her morning ablutions. 

He pushed aside the mental image of wet, bare skin, and gave one last tug on the Fade, slowing time so he could slip into the Inquisitor’s rooms behind the girl. He remained, silent and watchful, as the girl clomped up the steps, buckets sloshing quietly. 

A knock on the door, a tentative call, and the creak of a key turning. He strained his ears for Trevelyan’s voice, and heard only the girl quietly bidding her a good morning. Minutes later, she came clattering back down, stride lighter with the empty buckets and shaking her head. 

He waited till the door shut on her before taking the steps up, two at a time. The inner door had been left slightly ajar. He peered through the gap, and listened intently. Hearing no sounds of splashing, he rapped his knuckles on the frame. ‘Inquisitor?’ 

An indistinct moan issued from above, followed by the sound of shattering glass. Concerned, he Fade-stepped up the stairs. 

A very dishevelled Inquisitor greeted him with an irate squint, propped against the armrest of the couch. 'Who let you in?' 

'I have my ways.' He looked her over with the critical eye of a healer. It was obvious she had not spent the night in her bed. 

A cluster of glass shards lay a little ways away, colouring the air with the sharp tang of alcohol. Several more bottles of various shapes and sizes were scattered about, empty. 

He pursed his lips. 'Shall I close the curtains, Inquisitor?' 

'Please.' She had slumped back against the upholstery, arm thrown over her eyes. 

He drew the heavy damask curtains, leaving a slit to allow light to see by. Her breath stank of cheap alcohol when he bent over to examine her. Without her usual cosmetics, her skin looked papery and slightly sallow. 

He coaxed a glass of water laced with a rejuvenation potion into her, and set about gathering the detritus on the floor. 'I recommend a warm bath and a nourishing meal, Inquisitor.' 

'Noted,' she replied, slipping off the couch. 'Thank you for your help, Solas.' 

He stopped her before she went beyond arm's reach. 'Your neck.' 

She stood very still as he hovered a glowing hand over her throat, banishing the signs of his impulsive display. When he dropped his hand, she inclined her head in thanks, studiously decorous, and made for the bathing chamber. 'Pile the bottles in a corner for the servants. You should leave before more come to breakfast, or people will talk.' 

The ice in her voice chilled him to the core. He squeezed his eyes shut against the hints of brokenness before him, and hoped what bond they shared wasn't irreparably ruined. 

  
\--

On missions, she was professional enough to treat him no differently. In private, however, she no longer lingered in the rotunda, peppering him with questions or quietly watching him work. When he did see her, she was merely passing through on her way to the library or the Commander's office, some manner of tome or paperwork in hand. 

He missed her. 

He had no idea how to breach the chasm between them. Flowers were inappropriate. Books were a pittance when she had unlimited access to the finest libraries in Thedas. She had little patience for finery, having had such gifts repurposed as banners and other more practical textiles. 

An idea struck him then, and he paused to snatch up a book before heading out of the rotunda and for the Undercroft. 

**Author's Note:**

> Because I ship this pair like life itself, and the idea of an rogue Inquisitor who has a tiny spark of magical affinity and heterochromatic eyes popped into my head and won't go away.
> 
> This was written before the Trespasser DLC, and I suppose it can be seen as a fix-it fic of sorts.


End file.
